“Yup.” The girl moved on to someone else with a credit card.
I pulled Holly’s sleeve. “I’m good. Let’s go buy a Chipwich or something, my treat.”
“I thought you liked the sweatshirt.”
“I do, but it’s crazy expensive.” With Holly, I could tell the truth. Or, at least skim the top of the truth and give her the foamy layer that wasn’t too complicated or bitter.
“Hey,” Holly said, lowering her voice. “I can loan you the money if you want.”
I sucked in my cheeks. “No thanks,” I managed, walking quickly back to our table. Holly trailed me.
“Hey, Lil. It’s no problem. I know you’ll pay me back.”
I crammed my notebook into my backpack, pretending not to hear her.
“Seriously. It’s no big deal.”
No big deal. What was I supposed to say to that? Fifty dollars was a big deal to some people. Hello… me. Plus, it was more than the money. But, no big deal.
“Lil? Are you mad at me or something?”
“Nope.” I zipped my backpack closed.
Holly just stood there, like she genuinely didn’t know what to say. Like she… totally didn’t get it.
“Look, thanks for the offer. It’s crazy nice of you. But I actually have too many sweatshirts. Anyway, I gotta go check in with Mrs. Davila. She ordered some new… paper, and I want to get some before it’s gone. See ya,” I said, and took off.
On my way out of the cafeteria, I heard the principal announce over the PA system that from now on, all posters and flyers had to be approved ahead of time by his office. Right. But the damage had already been done.
Actually, it was just beginning.
23
Outside homeroom the next morning, I saw Rayshawn and his METCO friends on their phones, scrolling, scrolling, looking furious. “Aw, no fucking way!” Rayshawn cried out, his voice anguished. His friends huddled around his screen.
“That’s total bullshit!” another guy spat out.
“What is it?” I asked, coming close.
Rayshawn smacked his head back against his locker. Whatever it was, it was bad.
“Let me see.”
His boys ducked their heads, shifting away.
“Rayshawn.” Now I had to see.
Looking totally gutted, Rayshawn turned the screen my way. It was worse than I could have ever imagined. Someone had posted a meme on Insta—with a noose made of basketball net around Rayshawn’s neck.
The person had taken down the post, but not before someone else had taken a screenshot of it and reposted it. I looked wildly up and down the hall. How could this be happening? I couldn’t begin to imagine how Rayshawn must have been feeling. I reached for his arm. I wanted to say something, but there were no words. The look on his face was so hurt that my eyes filled with tears.
It wasn’t till he was a few feet away that I saw Dustin walking toward me.
“We gotta do something about this,” one of Rayshawn’s friends was saying.
Another answered, “Damn straight.”
Dustin reached for my hand. “Hey.”
“Hey.”
Dustin lifted his chin hello at Rayshawn and the others, but Rayshawn’s face had shut down, and his hands were balled into fists. “Yo,” he said, his voice hard. “You better tell your boy Chris or Steve or whatever asshole made that meme to stop this shit.”
Dustin stepped back. “What shit?”
Rayshawn’s friends laughed, but the sound was the opposite of joy.
Rayshawn narrowed his eyes. “Okay, have it your way. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
Dustin actually smirked. “Come on, bro. What are you talking about?”
I literally winced when he said “bro.” Rayshawn’s jaw locked.
The bell rang. No one moved. Except for me. I grabbed Dustin’s elbow. “I gotta go,” I mumbled; it was the only way I could defuse the situation.
When we were far enough down the hall, I filled Dustin in. He was as shocked as I was. “Do you think it was Steve?” I asked.
“Why do you think it was Steve?” Dustin bit the side of his thumb. “No way,” he said, but not quite convincingly. Plus he wouldn’t look at me. But I didn’t think Dustin would lie.… If he knew it was Steve, he’d tell me. So either he really didn’t know… or Chris Sweet had done it.
* * *
By lunch everyone had heard about the meme. Rayshawn and his friend Patrice set up a meeting with the principal, but all the principal said was that they were “looking into it.” So Patrice put a strip of duct tape over his mouth to symbolize their voices being silenced, and wore it until a teacher told him to take it off or else. I usually sat with Holly for lunch but that day, I don’t know, I just felt the need to stop at the METCO table. They were all in a frenzy, talking all loud, talking all over each other.
“This ain’t right.”
“Do they have any idea who would do this?”
“Had to be someone on the basketball team.”
“Whoever did this better be expelled.”
One kid sat with his head on the table while the girl beside him held his hand.
Lunches sat untouched.
“Hey,” I finally said to Brianna. Her hair was up in a bun like mine. She glared like I had just interrupted a funeral service.
“What do you want?” she asked, all mega-attitude.
“Nothing.… I… I just wanted to say…”
Brianna waved me away. “Why don’t you go back to your white-girl table? We’re good here.”
My chest tightened. “I… I…”
She sucked her teeth and added, “Gringa.” I gaped at her. I wanted to scream, But I’m in METCO too! I’m from Boston too! But that one word—“gringa”—sapped all the energy out of me. Gringa?
“Whatever,” I said, and spun away. But instead of heading to the white-girl table, I aimed for the art room. I wasn’t hungry anyway.
24
Rayshawn wasn’t in school the next day. Dang. Just as I was picturing again that meme of him, the principal announced over the PA: “Students who engage in posting racist messages online WILL be expelled. And in some cases we WILL be contacting colleges and notifying admissions counselors of hateful posts.”
Well, that got everyone’s attention. It was pretty awesome that the principal would make it a big deal. It WAS a big deal. Kids tucked their phones away as if just by holding them they would somehow be culpable. Then one guy in the row by the window mumbled, “That goes against the First Amendment, but whatever.”
The girl in front of him swung around. “What?”
“You can’t prevent someone from posting their ideas. Freedom of speech, anyone?”
A few people snickered. I wanted to smack the guy upside the head. But what good would that do? I’d be the one suspended, probably.
* * *
In first period French, Madame Volpée had everyone practicing the unit vocabulary in pairs. Pastel flash cards—baby blue, powder pink, light green—supposedly helped the memorization process. My partner: Peter Rubenstein. He was a straight A+ student, and he smelled like peanut butter. He wore Vineyard Vines clothes, from his navy-blue pants to his pink button-down.